


Valotte

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:15:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And he'd started reading again on Sunday, until Atsushi dragged him out to play basketball and then go grocery shopping and they'd spent several hours arguing over how many bags of chips to get ("One, damn it, Atsushi!" "No way. I don't want to have to come back later today. I want five.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valotte

 

The windowsill groans under his weight, old and creaky but wide enough to fit him and long enough for him to stretch out his long legs. It doesn't break; it's held much more than his weight before. It's sturdier than it looks, unlike the crumbling, ancient edition of the textbook he needs to read for class tomorrow. When was it published, 1926? It doesn't matter. He was going to read it yesterday, and before that he was going to read it on Saturday, and before that Friday night, but things happened.

More specifically, Atsushi happened. Atsushi happens. Atsushi…is. He is chaos personified, totally compulsive and impulsive and seemingly born to destroy Midorima's life.

Twenty-six pages left, twenty-six of the thirty there were on Friday, when he'd started but then Atsushi came home and wrapped his body around Midorima's and would not let go, burying his face in Midorima's neck and biting and nuzzling until Midorima couldn't take it any longer, couldn't even hit him with the book Atsushi was affecting his motor control so much. And that number (or close to it) remained on Saturday when he'd woken up and Atsushi was already cooking and insisted on spoon-feeding him omelet straight out of the frying pan, and then had led him back to the bedroom where they'd had sex and watched terrible TV talk shows all day and Midorima had almost forgotten about the work. And he'd started reading again on Sunday, until Atsushi dragged him out to play basketball and then go grocery shopping and they'd spent several hours arguing over how many bags of chips to get ("One, damn it, Atsushi!" "No way. I don't want to have to come back later today. I want five.") and then they went home and argued over dinner and Midorima vacuumed the living room and crawled into bed because he was so surprisingly tired.

And so, twenty-six pages remain. Mouse brains are boring; he tries not to let his eyes glaze over, writes notes in his spidery handwriting in the margins, underlines things that look important. He understands what's going on, but damn—these scientists don't know anything about writing. He checks the clock; even if he skims through this if he wants to learn all of it there's not enough time. The windowsill is hard; he's getting cramped. His legs and ass are becoming stiff, his back sore. He eases himself off the flat surface and onto the floor, feet almost buckling from the influx of weight. Even though the morning light is pouring through the window, Atsushi sleeps, head hidden under the blankets and his mop of violet hair. Midorima crawls back next to him, unable to pry the covers from the stronger hands that grip tightly even in sleep. He's got another fifteen minutes until the alarm rings, and even if he only sleeps for five of them he'll probably be more aware in class than if he sat and stared into space instead of reading the textbook.

Trying to get comfortable and accidentally knocking his elbow into Atsushi's chest startles him from slumber. He opens his eyes and blinks at Midorima, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek and throwing an arm around his waist. "Where did you go?"

This kind of fatigue is contagious. Midorima closes his eyes.

* * *

After weighing all of his options, Midorima had decided on a medical school up in Nemuro. The next day, Atsushi declared that he was going, too, and there was nothing Midorima could do about it. Atsushi, capricious as he is, will not take no for an answer sometimes, and this was one of those times. He knew that Midorima's arguments were all for show, that he wanted Atsushi to stay with him. Atsushi only had two goals at that point (and as far as Midorima knows they're still his goals), to run his own pastry shop and to stay with Midorima, or at least that's what he said, gripping Midorima's shoulders and staring at him intensely with those usually-lazy violet eyes.

So they moved up together in the early spring, Atsushi finding work at a bakery rather easily, which settled matters on his end. There was still a chill in the air that they were not used to, but the ocean was beautiful. Himuro called and asked if they can see Russia from their house, a question so bizarre that it had to be a joke (when Midorima asked, Himuro had only laughed and changed the subject).

Time is fluid, slipping in cycles over their fingers, a brook. Outside them the water only flows under the hard ice in the streets down the grates to the sewer, and it's too cold to touch with bare hands. Atsushi works; Midorima goes to medical school—he's not sure he's learning anything.

He asks Atsushi about Akita sometimes, whether it's like Nemuro—both of them are in this vague part of the country in his mind that he refers to as "the North", which is basically anything north of Tokyo. Geography was never his best subject.

"Well, it's on a different island," Atsushi says, sipping his coffee and wincing at the taste, pouring in a seventh pack of sugar (at some point, it'll be more sugar than coffee, and that's when Atsushi really starts to enjoy it—Midorima knows better than to ask if it hurts his teeth because he's known Atsushi too long and too well for that). That's about as much of an answer as he'll get from Atsushi, no matter how much he persists in asking.

Midorima feels an ache in his bones sometimes, for Tokyo—for the warmer weather, for the streets he's used to and the signs and shops and trains and cars that are perhaps no longer there. He calls Takao and asks him to take pictures on a film camera and send them up to him. Takao doesn't ask why (at least he's learned something in the time since they've first met; the why with Midorima is always, always,  _always_  complicated) but just asks for specifics because he'd rather not get an earful on the phone when he gets them wrong (which he will, anyway, but at least he's trying).

Atsushi doesn't feel homesick; he just bundles up under a bigger coat or more sweaters. He's always forgetting his earmuffs or a hat; Midorima always reminds him but Atsushi shrugs. He's got his hair; his parka has a hood. He'll be fine (he's not-so-secretly very pleased about the attention and mothering he's getting from Midorima. Atsushi very much likes to be spoiled) but he always has Midorima adjust his scarf for him and Midorima feels somewhat humiliated by this, much like a wife adjusting her husband's tie on some domestic comedy TV show.

Atsushi cooks all day at the bakery, but he comes home and makes dinner, stir-fry and rice and pasta and curry and meats and vegetables—it's actually kind of balanced (although that may or may not have something to do with Midorima handling most of the grocery shopping) and even though it's not usually baked, it's still good. Anyway, it's only fair if Atsushi does the cooking because Midorima does all of the cleaning and things kind of have a way of evening out.

* * *

The winter nights are dark early in the night and dark late in the morning and it's like an ink stain takes over the sky. Some nights are cloudy and the light grey of the overcast sky softens the bitterness of the wind. It's too stuffy to keep all the windows closed, but it's cold even with all of their covers on and they wrap themselves up in each other so that it's hard to tell where one body ends and one begins. The summers are mild but autumn and spring are basically continuations of winter, but with a bit less snow.

Himuro calls fairly regularly to check on Atsushi. Midorima would find it irritating had he less self-awareness. He knows he's not exactly a nurturing person, but when it comes to Atsushi it's hard not to be. He brings out the doting side in everyone, especially Midorima. Still, he doesn't go overboard (Himuro's a bit hypocritical here, considering the way he'd bend over backward to accommodate Atsushi during their high school days) and of course he makes sure Atsushi is eating his vegetables and yes he's not working too hard (does Atsushi even have the ability to work too hard?) and yes he's happy.

Actually, Midorima doesn't want to answer for Atsushi for the last one so he passes the phone over and sees Atsushi nod along with his words, even though Himuro can't see him from where he is.

And then, when the phone call ends, Atsushi places the phone on the coffee table and turns to Midorima and asks, "Are you happy?" as he catches Midorima's hand in his own.

Midorima nods. "I am."

What little is left of the homesick ache goes away when Atsushi wraps his arms around him, when he digs his fingers into the waistband of Midorima's pants and when he deliberately musses up Midorima's shirt and kisses him full and deep.

**Author's Note:**

> xposted to fanfiction.net
> 
> Music: "Valotte" by Julian Lennon
> 
> Uh yeah I missed actual MuraMido day whoops but whatever


End file.
